Perhaps in these early days in Kirkwall, carrying around some of the things like balms or salves or flasks of whatever it is that the mages call them that tend to slip through her head to deal with just these sorts of things - ice and flame and lightning - might be sensible. Then again, that would be thinking ahead and they only have so great a capacity for that most days.

Araceli takes the opposite side from Prompto, thrusts with the rapier and flicks her other blade into a icepick grip as it-- crumples. Gives way. The cold makes her teeth burn as it howls and shrieks, the head twisting this way and that with all those terrible, terrible rows of teeth that make no sense belonging on a face that could have been human.

Sucking in a breath is like being back in the freezing wastes but she twists the rapier and rides it out, refusing to give in.